


winter nights

by johnnygossamer



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Couch Cuddles, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Preseries, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 14:25:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnnygossamer/pseuds/johnnygossamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>firelight, brothers, and Bobby's old dusty couch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	winter nights

During one of the coldest winters South Dakota had ever seen, John had dropped the boys off at Uncle Bobby’s for a week while he hunted down a rougarou in a forest some hundred miles away. Bobby had gone out with him, insisting despite John’s lone-wolf demeanor, the man finally convinced when Dean said he and Sammy would be fine in the house alone. With both men gone the place felt oddly empty, barren, lacking the usual warm cheer that followed Bobby, a hint of sarcasm pinned along.

In attempts to fill the empty void (and warm the place up), Dean lit the fireplace with some spare logs he found out back, rubbing his hands together near the flame, hissing from the short journey outside. Snow hadn’t stopped falling since sunrise, and Dean guessed it would cover up half the doorway by tomorrow afternoon, and Sam would want to trample out and play in it. 

With the evening settled in, a night without the blast of shotguns ringing in his ears for once, Dean collapsed into the old couch with a heavy sigh, enjoying the low light from the fire and watching the snow spiral down from beyond the frost-bitten window. Upstairs, he imagined Sam was doing the same, half his attention outside, the other half on his fifth stolen library book this month. It wasn’t like he was a bad kid—they just moved town too quickly to bother with things like overdue fines. Besides, it was deep in the thick of winter, when schools shut down for the holiday break, and Dean knew Sam couldn’t function without at least a little intellectual stimulation. 

Dean fell asleep for what felt like years, the low creak from the bottom step of the stairs finally rustling him into consciousness. Sam, looking everything like a tired, cold, little fourteen-year-old, rubbed at his eyes, edging near the fire. Despite being wrapped up in the old rust-orange hoodie he inherited at a Goodwill last year, the kid was visibly shivering, tiptoeing, probably trying not to wake up his older brother. 

With a gentle rustle and a characteristic grunt, Dean alerted his little brother that he was awake, no need to tread with quiet steps, and offered a smile to the boy.

“Hey, you. Finish your book?” He asked, voice groggy with sleep. The firelight danced across the length of Sam’s bangs and Dean felt mesmerized.

“It had a lame ending. It was so predictable and cliché that it physically pained me.” Ah, there was that Sam Winchester Snark, freshly grown in since age twelve, when he started watching rated-R movies with Dean. The kid sure did have some lip on him when he wanted, and Dean was almost afraid of what it would turn into when the kid grew up.

“Yeah, well, your face makes me feel the same, but I ain’t complainin’.” Dean retorted right back, and he grinned as he caught the pillow lugged in his direction. Sam wavered on his feet by the fire, enjoying the lick of heat at his legs, and Dean flipped onto his back on the dusty couch. “You want dinner? S’kinda late, maybe we can make cocoa or something.”

“No, it’s okay. M’not that hungry.” Sam’s voice was quiet, hushed in the same way the snow outside was, gentle, without any edge to it. The boys both eased into a comfortable silence, watching the flames eat away at the logs, the calming crackle of firewood instead of the hissing snaps of bone and salt six feet below. It was probably nearing midnight by now, which was way past the usual time Dean made Sam tucker off to bed, but with Dad gone until morning, he figured he could let the kid stay up if he wanted to.

Eventually Sam was wobbling on too-warm toes by the fireside and Dean had to open up his arms to finally get him to come over, crawling up to lay face-down on Dean’s chest, just the perfect balance of soft skin and taut muscle. Sam hummed, pleased, curling up into Dean and letting his eyes slip closed. A heavy, protective hand found its way into Sam’s hair, defiantly long, and tangled into the deep brown locks as the boy moved in rhythm to Dean’s gentle breathing. 

As Sam slowly drifted into the sweet lull of sleep, Dean lay awake, head resting up against the armrest, staring at the ceiling, eyes grazing over dark lines of a devil’s trap etched into the wood. There was this feeling, deep in his chest, rooted there like an evil, leeching plant, and all it had been telling him was that he had to cling to Sammy while he still could. The kid—barely a kid, now, hitting puberty, a teenager, already knew how to fire a gun—would just keep resisting Dad as he learned more and more about lives outside of their own, about the life he could’ve had, the life he reads about in his books and fantasizes about on long car rides, and Dean only knew about that because Sam told him in a fit of anger after his third training session with the shotgun.

This boy was going to go places, and Dean had a feeling Sam was headed everywhere Dean wasn’t.

He ran his fingers through his little brother’s hair, every inch of his skin wanting to cling to this moment, pin Sam to the couch and make him promise never to leave, but he couldn’t do that. Couldn’t make Sam do anything he didn’t want to, there would be too much guilt, even if Sam would listen to him. For now, he would take what he could get, and if what he got were stranded, fire-lit winter nights curled up with Sammy, then he was happy enough.


End file.
